


Soulmate on four legs

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Anxiety, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Illnesses, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Part 2 of my Bad Things Happen Bingo.Clint is a mess on a good day and he's got an unfortunate tendency to push people away from him - the only living creature close to him at all times is Pizza Dog. But Lucky is getting old, and with age, health complications ensure. Sadly, he won't live forever, and Cint needs to cope somehow.Or: Looking back on one of the most wondeful connections between dog and human
Relationships: Clint Barton & Lucky
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701046
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Soulmate on four legs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> so, because I love a good writing challenge, I'm now taking a part in the Bad Things Happen Bingo.  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/  
> Please mind the tags!
> 
> I'm cross-posting this to my tumblr, https://banashee.tumblr.com
> 
> This is my second square: "Loss of a Pet".
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> \- references to depression and anxiety and very brief mention if suicidal thoughts  
> \- death of a beloved pet / animal death  
> \- Cancer

****

**Soulmate on four legs**

The thing is, Clint never really finds out how old exactly Lucky is. 

When he rescues him from the tracksuit assholes, the vet roughly estimates the age, but it’s never quite clear. At the time, it doesn’t seem to matter, because after all, the dog has just gotten another chance at life - and a much better one at that, even with his injuries and the loss of an eye. 

Lucky, very much like his new name, is just that - lucky. He’s got a new home, lot’s to explore and a human who loves him to pieces and would do anything for him. 

Lucky is, despite everything, a healthy and active dog - he loves running in central park, around the apartment building and playing fetch and tug of war for hours until he can happily collapse, getting his ears scratched and his fluffy golden belly rubbed to his heart's desire. 

Lucky _loves_ life in Bed Stuy. 

Lucky loves his human, and he stays close to him, especially on the bad days, when he’s too sad to play or go on walks that are longer than just down the street for Lucky to relieve himself. 

On those days, when Clint is too exhausted eat, sleep, shower or get out of bed or up from the floor where he stays for hours on end sometimes, all he does is feed Lucky because it’s literally the only thing he can bring himself to do, taking care of the one living creature that depends on him and loves him back no matter what. 

Clint wishes he could do more, but his brain is an anxious, depressed clusterfuck and a half most days, so sometimes it just knocks him on his ass. 

Some days are good, and then he will be able to laugh with his friends and neighbours, ace it on missions and still have the energy to run through the park with Lucky and sing along to Queen when he’s home cooking or cleaning. 

But then there are days where he just _stops_ , anything and everything and that’s when he’s still kinda okay. He’ll be able to fight and kick ass if he has to, and this is when he’ll feel alive again until he comes home and just sits and drinks coffee and pets Lucky for days. 

Sometimes, when his mental health takes a bad fall, his thoughts are overwhelming and he’ll panic for hours, unable to stop crying. 

The apartment stays cold and dark and messy then, because getting back up to do anything about it requires too much energy. 

Lucky nudges him into the kitchen then, whining for food and he doesn’t stop until Clint eats something, too. It takes him a little while to catch on to that, and it brings a small, sad smile on his face as he runs a bandaged hand through the thick golden fur and tries to remember that he actually likes being alive. He lets Lucky lick his face and sits down on the floor next to him, cheek resting on his dogs back. Feeling the warmth and the heartbeat is calming, and it helps him to breathe again. 

“Good boy. You want company for dinner, huh? That’s okay, buddy.” His voice is rough and tired, but he keeps petting Lucky, as he half heartedly sips noodle soup from a mug, and this is when Lucky is comfortable chomping down on his wet food in the bowl, now that he got his human to eat a little bit, too.

The years go on like this, good days, bad days and awful days, and it always works out somehow. 

Lucky gets older, grayer and much slower than he ever was, and finally he’s got too much trouble with the stairs so Clint starts to carry him up and down when they go for their daily walks now. Those walks get shorter, too, and Lucky doesn’t have nearly as much energy to run and play anymore, but apart from that, he is as happy as ever. 

Up until a few years ago, he loved to go wild and _run run run, play play play_ , until he’d happily curled up on the couch to take a long nap before starting all over again. Now, Lucky prefers his walks to be short and his nap and cuddle times to be especially long. 

The regular checkups at the vet increase, too. 

Clint is well aware of the changes of old age in Lucky, and he wants to be sure that they stay on top of things, that he can help Lucky with whatever is necessary for as long as he’ll be able live a happy life still. 

He doesn’t like to think about it, knowing that larger dog’s usually don’t get as old - especially because it’s been almost 9 years since he got Lucky. The thought of losing him sends cold dread down his spine and he’ll start panicking if he thinks about it for too long, so Clint avoids it as best as he can while providing the best possible care for his four legged friend.

One day, Lucky collapses. Rapid heartbeat; erratic breathing and Clint nearly trips down the stairs in his hurry to get to the vet. 

The doctors check Lucky for any symptoms, drawing blood to test, ordering x-rays and EKG’s, and while they wait for the results, Clint sits with Lucky’s head on his lap, restlessly stroking his soft head while the dog dozes off, worn out and exhausted. 

A woman he saw come in with her cat earlier, a beautiful tabby, is now alone and pacing the waiting room with her arms crossed in front of her chest. She’s sniffling silently and her eyes are rimmed red, watery. She looks utterly lost and scared, and Clint understands just too well how she must be feeling. 

He’s scared, too, and if Lucky wasn’t right here with him (still breathing, still warm and alive, thank god) he’d probably be doing the same. Waiting is the worst part, and it eats him up from the inside.

Wordlessly, he offers the woman a small packet of tissues. His hand is shaking, but she takes it, with a small and tearful smile as a thank you. 

Here, in the waiting area of a veterinarian office, strangers don’t need words to understand each other. 

A few minutes later, the woman is called out of the room and she doesn’t come back there - Clint hopes for her that the little tabby cat is alright. It keeps him from freaking out over Lucky for a little while, and then they are called back into the other room.

The doctor looks calm and sympathetic as he explains Hemangiosarcoma - cancer in dogs that affects the blood vessels, and their options for treatment. 

Clint listens with dread in his stomach, gently stroking Lucky who is nuzzling into him and licking his hand - he's not entirely sure who is trying to comfort whom here. 

They want to start the treatment right away - a surgery to remove the tumor, although the doctor informs Clint that this might not work out in the long run and that this is a trial. He signs the paperwork. 

As long as Lucky us able to live happy and pain free, he is willing to try everything possible. 

When he leaves the vet's office, after extensively petting Lucky and promising him all the cuddles and treats in the world for later, he's feeling utterly alone - they said that they want to keep Lucky there for a day or two after the surgery and they will call Clint to let him know how it went and when he can pick him up to take home again. 

He just can't shake off the thoughts of "what if they call to tell me he's died" and "what if I'll never see Lucky again?" and it's enough to send him into a downward spiral. 

Clint keeps it together while he's in public - barely. He's walking with tunnel vision, not realizing that he collides with someone until the guy angrily shouts after him, but he doesn't have it in him to apologize or stop. He needs to get home. 

When he finally shuts the door behind him, he leans with his back against it, takes a shuddering breath and then sinks down to the floor, unable to stop the tears that have been burning in his eyes ever since the vet told him about the diagnosis. 

Lucky is old, and obviously he won't live forever. But Clint has always hoped that he'd just peacefully fall asleep one day, not - this. Surgeries, cancer treatment. 

Deep down he knows that he needs to think about euthanasia options if this isn't going to work out. The thought leaves him gasping for air, and he's trying to muffle the sounds in the fabric of his hoodie. He doesn't want the neighbors to hear him and he really should move away from the door, but he doesn't find the strength to do so, not for hours. 

When he manages to do so, he pulls himself up from the floor, and slowly walks upstairs into the bedroom. His clothes end up in a pile on the floor, and he turns up the vibrations of his phone as much as possible so he'll be able to notice it even without hearing aids. 

He barely manages to find any sleep, too anxious and keyed up to be able to rest. 

The vet calls him in the evening, to inform him that Lucky is relatively okay after the surgery, but they will have to keep an close eye on him. Clint will be able to pick him up in two days, and it's a small relief. 

He still doesn't sleep, and his thoughts run wild while he spends the night tossing and turning. The familiar weight and the warmth of his dog is missing - and Clint needs to stop himself from thinking too much about that (what if this will be forever soon?) because it'll make him freak out all over again. 

Two days are a very, very long time to wait. 

When he is finally able to bring Lucky back home again, he's incredibly happy and the dog is beyond excited to see him. Even in his old age and shortly after a surgery, he tackles Clint to the floor when he sees him in the kennel area and clumsily climbs into his lap, refusing to let go and putting his head on his humans shoulder. 

The vet's assistant who brought him here looks at them with a smile on her face - even after years in this job, scenes like this never fail to spark happiness in her. 

Upon leaving, Clint thanks her profusely, and in extension everyone else involved in the treatment of Lucky. 

"Thank you" doesn't seem like enough for this. But it'll have to do. 

Life back home goes back to normal, but it's slow, and accommodating for Lucky's needs. He seems to be happy and content, enjoying his food and extensive belly rubs. Clint barely leaves his side these days, too worried he might miss important signs for Lucky's health if the turns his back for too long. 

His own mental health is suffering, but he tries to keep a lid on it, not wanting to upset Lucky because he knows he'll pick up on it. This wonderful mutt is way too smart and compassionate for his own good sometimes, so he still notices. 

Both of them spend many hours in bed, dozing and cuddled up. Clint breathes easier, with Lucky close by and his warm fur, wet nose and constant heartbeat, even when it's pattern is off due to his illness. 

For hours on end, Clint will talk to his dog, chatting away about meaningless things, but also telling him just how much he loves him. Sometimes, he is pretty damn sure that Lucky understands every single word. 

Clint has an unfortunate tendency to piss people off, to push them away, even when they mean well. Even when he doesn't mean to hurt anyone just because he hates himself and doesn't think he deserves friends or a partner. 

Over the years, his circle of real friends has died down rapidly as a result. He's used to it, never someone to be comfortable with too many people around him, but sometimes, late at night when he's wide awake and shaking apart, he wishes he were different. 

People leave - they might still care and work with him if needed. Some might even still love him - he’s not sure and won’t ask, just in case the answer he’ll get hurts too much, so he’s happy to take what he can get.

But People leave and he understands. 

Clint wouldn't want to be around himself, either. 

Lucky never left him, always happily comes back even when he physically went away for a little while. Lucky always loves him, no matter what. 

And now he's very close to losing this - the wonderful connection and the love of his four legged Soulmate. Lucky might be okay now, but Clint needs to stay realistic - he won't be okay forever and then he might have to make a decision that will break his heart. 

The up stays for a few weeks - almost three months. But then, Lucky gets much, much worse than before. 

He's never been this weak, and he refuses to eat or drink anything. Even his favorite snacks that he used to slurp up in record time like a big, fuzzy vacuum cleaner remain untouched now. 

Clint shows up at the vet before they even open, while it's still dark out. He remains seated on the concrete stairs, with Lucky curled up next to him, head pillowed on his upper legs and he runs his hands through his fur, quietly talking to him, trying to calm both the dog and himself. 

When the first employees arrive, they usher Clint inside, who is carrying his dog because Lucky is too exhausted to even walk, and they are very sympathetic.

The doctor tells him what he already feared and suspected - Lucky's cancer got worse, and they don't have much hope for improvement. 

"At this point, it wouldn't be inhumane to put Lucky to sleep, Mr. Barton. He is clearly in pain and I cannot promise that I'll be able to help him. The treatment might kill him before the illness does." he says, calm and gentle. 

Clint looks at Lucky, who blinks up at him with his one eye, tired and in pain and once again as if he understood every word spoken. 

It breaks his heart, and he kneels down in front of the examination table to be close to his dog, foreheads resting against each other. Lucky's tail is wagging weakly as he leans into Clint. 

He needs a moment to think and compose himself, but then he agrees. 

Leaving Lucky in pain is the last thing he wants. And even though it makes him feel like the most horrible person alive to decide to put him to sleep, he knows it's for the best. It would be selfish at this point, to keep him alive at any cost and he knows he needs to make this decision for Lucky because he can't make it for himself. 

He stays by his side the entire time, softly talking to him and running his hands through the golden fuzz. Lucky blinks at him as if to say "it's okay" and then he shuffles even more towards to Clint, who holds him close, face pressed into the fur as the doctor sets the injections. Clint keeps petting Lucky until he stops breathing, and even after he doesn't stop. 

The vet leaves the room, giving him a bit of privacy to say goodbye to his beloved companion - Clint is grateful for it, because right now, he can't keep it together like he usually forces himself to when he's out in public. At least right now, no one is around to watch him fall apart. 

How much time passed, he doesn't know. But he manages to pull himself together somewhat, and he carefully takes off Lucky's collar and stays at his spot, still stroking the dogs soft head although he's no longer with him. 

A small urn with Lucky's ashes will be ready to pick up for him in a few days, and it'll stay on a shelf in his apartment for the rest of his life. 

On the day though, Clint walks home slowly, alone and barely realizing what is even going on around him. 

He's wearing sunglasses although it's a cloudy day, keeping his head down and the hood of his sweatshirt up. It's the best he can do to hide while he's still out where people walk and elbow past him, as if the world didn't just stop. The collar in his hand feels heavy, and he keeps clutching it like a lifeline. 

When he arrives back home, the clock on his kitchen wall informs him that it's not even lunch time - it seems surreal. 

In the early morning hours he'd ran out in a panic with Lucky in his arms to get him to the vet, waited until they opened and then had to let him go, and it all feels like a lifetime ago, but it's not even 10 o'clock in the morning now that he's back home and feeling more alone than he'd had in many years. 

Dealing with any of this seems like an awful idea, so he climbs back up the stairs, puts the collar on his nightstand and crawls back into bed, clothes and shoes still on and not giving a shit. 

Clint is exhausted enough to actually fall asleep, but he wakes up again soon after, choking on a nightmare clawing at the sheets as he's trying to calm down. It proves to be a lot harder now, when there is no Pizza Dog to lick his face or snuggle close to. 

He's physically hurting, not just from the panic that's ripping through him, the dehydration and the headache from crying, but from the grief of having lost his best friend. 

Right now, it feels unbearable and he does not know what to do, so what he's focusing on is to simply keep breathing. 

Keep breathing, because it's all he can do right now. 

*+~

**Square: Loss of a Pet**

  
  
  
  



End file.
